Dark Hearts
by Alexandra Spar
Summary: Crossover. Xanatos has made a deal with Daggett Industries which threatens the city with a genetically-engineered virus. With Batman out of commission, Goliath and the clan are the city's only line of defense.


Disclaimer: None of the characters in the following story save Jack Lorne, Aline Grey and Christine Redhart are mine. Gargoyles is the property of Disney; Batman and related indicia belong to DC Comics; Karr is the property of Glenn A. Larson.

It is dark, as it always is in Gotham, even in the daylight hours. A thin, greasy drizzle threads its way between the towering and impartial forms of the downtown skyscrapers; the sky itself is livid reddish-violet, reflected light from the city glowing sickly on the low clouds.

This place is oddly comforting to the woman dressed in black who stands alone in an alleyway, watching the night turn slowly darker. She has lived here for longer than she can remember, although few people in the city know her name or her business. She has kept it that way.

She waits, with the patience of stone. It is not long before the event for which she is waiting comes to pass.

"Elisa?"

The voice hissed out of the darkness, not a voice Maza was particularly pleased to hear. She had only just got here, and already she was uneasy, as if something was watching her. Something close by.

"It's me. You got the information?"

"I got it. You got my money?"

"The disks first, Freeman," she said evenly, one hand out, the other ready to go for the Glock in her worn holster. The plastic shape of a disk box appeared out of the darkness and was laid in her hand. In one smooth motion she slid the box into her jacket pocket and came out with a plain, heavy paper envelope. "It's all there. Used, unmarked."

The informant shoved a finger in the envelope, nodded, satisfied. "A pleasure, Elisa, as always."

"Go on," she said, "get out of here." Footfalls echoed unpleasantly in the spitting rain.

Whatever was watching her was still doing so. She thought of calling Goliath, decided against it; she could take care of herself. She turned, hand still hovering over the Glock, and headed back to her car. The tracking device in the envelope was already on; she could hear the tiny beeps it was making through the little clip-on earphone hidden under the dark fall of her hair. She hoped to God Freeman wouldn't notice it until too late. The thing was the size of a watch battery, if that, and there was enough cash in the envelope to camouflage the lump it would make. If there was anything useful on these disks, it would almost be worth it to lose the money. The Department had been tracking the Dagon Society for months now, getting more and more humiliated with every attempt to take the society down. She didn't want to think about the last thing the Dagon Society had done, but she couldn't help seeing the flayed bodies again, the terrible grin of the man without a face....

"Maza?" the little speaker squeaked into her ear, shattering the picture. "Maza, do you copy?"

"Yeah, I copy, what's going on?"

"Get your ass to the reservoir as fast as you can. We got a call from someone that Xanatos is getting busy up there with some sort of tanker truck and a lot of heavily armed goons. All units are called."

"On my way," she told the dispatcher. "I got the Dagon disks, by the way."

"Good work," said the voice, and crackled itself silent. She reached her car, got in, lit the engine and laid rubber for a good ten feet pulling away from the curb.

David Xanatos allowed himself a small and acid smile as the pump motor on the truck throbbed to life and the limp hose swelled to tumescence, gallon after gallon of an extremely expensive and concentrated engineered viral agent surging into the black waters of Gotham's main reservoir. The plan was absurdly simple, absurdly elegant, and could not really be reversed.

Demona was perched on top of the truck, her wings clasped over her shoulders like a cloak, her red hair venomous purple beneath the arc-mercury lamps of the pump station. "This is bound to attract some attention, Xanatos," she hissed.

"That, my dear, is why you and these gentlemen are present." He indicated the armed squad of bodyguards with an expansive gesture. "I feel sure that you are capable of, ah, neutralizing any hostile force."

Demona gave him a withering red glare, but turned back to watch the hose and the water. The meter on the tank read half full, falling rapidly. There was a possibility they could get away before...

No. Her preternatural hearing picked up the ululation of sirens, miles off but getting closer. "They're coming," she told him. "I hear at least two vehicles, maybe three."

"What about your, ah, relatives?" he inquired, still watching the gauge.

"I don't know," she lied. The human woman, Maza, would most likely be here, and if she was to arrive, Goliath would not be far behind.

Quarter full.

"They're less than a mile away."

"Be quiet, would you?" Xanatos gave her a sharp look. "We're doing something important here."

"You already have billions of dollars," she said acidly, "I don't see why a few more billions are that important. And if they catch you...."

"You're not going to let that happen," said Xanatos firmly. "Take the squad and go head them off if you're that disturbed about it."

One-eighth left.

Demona snarled, but sprang from the top of the truck and swooped down, her wings catching the updraft from the water and bearing her high into the night. She saw the cops, not far away now, their whirling lights like a headache in the darkness, and banked down towards them, meaning to create a distraction.

Elisa Maza drove entirely too fast through the wet night, her cop flasherbubble silent and dark on the passenger seat beside her. No one would ticket her; everyone in the city knew this car by now, and left it the hell alone. Ahead of her she saw the flicker of cop lights, ignored them. She knew a better way to get to the reservoir.

_Goliath.__ Goliath, I need your help. Come quickly._

And, as one feels the blood move in one's veins, she felt him hear, and respond.

Screeching round the last few turns up the great hill to where the black waters of the reservoir lapped against their concrete banks, she saw the grey truck backed up to the pump station, the words _Daggett Industries_ not quite rubbed from its steel flanks. Daggett, she thought absently as she approached the truck. Roland Daggett? The same Daggett Industries that brought Gotham the Cat Scratch Fever that nearly killed Selina Kyle?

She slammed on the brakes, cut the engine, and was out of the car, both sidearms cocked and aimed at Xanatos, who lounged without visible alarm against the truck's cab.

"Ah, Miss Maza," he said elegantly, "how nice to see you again. A pity the weather's so vile."

"Get your hands in the air, Xanatos," she yelled. "Now."

"I don't think so," he said. "You're surrounded."

She heard the unmistakeable sound of safeties being taken off on at least six Kalashnikov automatic rifles. _Damnfool going in alone, should've known he'd have security, should've waited until Goliath got here...._

There was an equally unmistakeable sound, one which Elisa could not have been happier to hear: the soft hush of gliding wings on the night, and the impact of taloned feet on the concrete. From behind her, Goliath's voice cut into the air, like dark velvet, like steel.

"Call them off, Xanatos."

"I don't think so," Xanatos repeated, and brought out a crossbow from the shadowy recesses of his opera cloak. "Goodnight, Miss Maza, and goodnight to you too, Goliath."

The little noise of the catch letting go, perhaps twenty feet from her, and the hiss-_thud_ of the bolt as it buried itself in flesh. Goliath roared in pain, pulled the bolt from his shoulder and tossed it away like a toothpick, swooping forward to shield Elisa from the guns. Xanatos's goons were staring, their eyes wide and shocked, as the gargoyle gathered himself to spring.

"Well," said another voice, cold as iron, tinted with the dark air of the Northlands, "it's turning out to be a real family reunion, isn't it."

"Demona," said Goliath, softly. "I might have known you'd be here. You're still working with this madman?"

"We have a business agreement," Demona snarled. "None, I might add, of yours. Put the girl down and get out of here."

"No," he said. "What has he done to the water?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Demona's red eyes brightened. "It should be very amusing to watch. Unfortunately, if you insist on sticking around, you won't be alive to witness it. _Put down the girl and go._"

"Goliath, do as she says," Elisa whispered. "Keep her occupied. I'll take care of Xanatos."

He rumbled angrily, but set her on her feet, and took two measured steps away. Elisa began to turn towards Xanatos, but there was a faint twanging sound and a throb of air, and she knew immediately what was happening, and she moved with a speed she had never known possible, and then the world was all pain and shock and confusion and vertigo as the bolt took her in the side and knocked her backward and to the ground and the ground swapped places with the sky and she heard Demona laughing, on and on, and felt the rain on her face....

Wings. The smell of leather and smoke and stone. Silken hair slipping over her face like rain, and the rumble of a deep voice in the night. Something pulled at her side; it hurt to breathe, and her breast and arm were sticky and wet, cold in the gentle wind. Someone was holding her. Someone was holding her very carefully, and she began to make out words.

".....Elisa, please, hold on...."

"Goliath?" she whispered.

"Don't try to speak. Hold on, please, Elisa, you'll be all right...."

She reached up, her strength almost gone, the emptiness pulling at her, and traced the hard line of his cheekbone with a tapered finger. "I love you," she murmured. "Always remember that."

"Elisa, don't..." He closed his eyes. "Don't leave me."

".....love....you....." she repeated, and caught a sharp breath, and coughed bright blood. Dark flowers were blooming before her eyes. She could hardly see the sky.

"I love you, Elisa," he told her, and she took that down with her, down into the darkness, and her eyes closed.

Xanatos, watching, amused, wondered if Maza was dead yet. She was tough, that girl, no doubt about it. Goliath had laid her gently on the ground, and stood up, and spread his wings, and sprang into the air. He caught a spiraling updraft, rising more than a hundred feet straight up into the night, folded his wings, and plummeted like a stone. Xanatos watched with interest. Goliath fell from the sky like a leathery angel, and it seemed to the watcher that the water of the reservoir rose up to meet him, embracing him, taking him beneath the surface in a thrashing of spray and a tower that rose slowly out of the waves before collapsing back again, white and black, lashing the shore of the lake with impotent fury.

Well, thought Xanatos. Two thorns in my side removed with a single crossbow bolt. Not a bad night, even by my standards.

Demona remained, watching, after he had loaded his goons into the truck and driven away. The woman was lying still on the concrete verge, bleeding out. Demona could hear her dying, could hear her as she stepped farther and farther into the river of ice. Goliath had not surfaced.

Something in her snapped, almost audibly. Not Goliath. She could not lose Goliath, not like this, and she did not want to have him try again for the sake of his human woman. She spat, the taste of bitter anger and humiliation thick in her throat, and spoke a Latin incantation aloud.

The universe shifted a very little. The waves in the reservoir no longer lapped against the concrete wall; the greasy raindrops hung suspended in the night. She hurried over to where Maza lay and rolled her over so that she could see the wound.

She had dealt with worse. Hurriedly she spliced torn veins, patched flesh together, bandaged the wound with the woman's jacket, before making a few sigils in the air and touching Maza's forehead with her forefinger, lightly. More Latin words, and the rain began again to fall; only now Maza was breathing shallowly.

Demona stood and dove into the black water, her wings folded, her eyes open and glowing angry red. Twice she came up for air before she found him, his hair floating in the darkness like softest lace, and bore him toward the surface with strong strokes of her legs and tail. He wasn't breathing either, and it took her a long time to get the water out of him, but he eventually coughed and shuddered his way back to life.

She stood, dripping, and screamed a scream no human could hear, a scream that nevertheless echoed from the lapping waves and from the pumphouse wall before departing over the city. They would hear, and they would come, and Goliath would live.

The woman in black who had watched Maza exchange the envelope for the box heard the scream, and clapped her hands to her ears in pain; far above the audible register for normal humans, it sounded to her like the screech of nails on a chalkboard. She knew where it had come from, by the echoes and by the direction, and she ran to where her car waited in the alley.

Goliath drifted back to the surface, found himself in the clock tower, lit faintly from outside by the clock face. His entire body ached, his lungs were on fire; the air in the great room was cold, even by his standards, but he was sweating. He reached back through the confused shards of his memory, trying to remember what had happened. The last clear image was....

Elisa. Oh, God, Elisa.

He caught his breath sharply, began to cough, the fire in his chest flaring suddenly, feeling like knives tearing inside him. Elisa was dead. There was a dark hole in his memory. Something to do with black water, and the sky, and the strange feeling of falling. He had never fallen before.

"You're awake," said a woman's voice, quite close.

He turned his head, the tendons of his neck creaking, and met the brilliant green gaze of Aline Grey. She was regarding him with a combination of pity and concern, and her dark-red hair was gemmed with rain as if she had just come in out of the night. "Aline," he gasped. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard the call," she said. "Demona's call. I was there before Hudson and Lexington arrived. Elisa is safe, Goliath, in hospital. They told me she was out of danger."

"How?" he asked her, raising himself on an elbow, his voice rasping and desperate. "How did she survive?"

"It must have been Demona," said Aline, evenly. "I looked at her wound. She'd been partially healed, by someone who knew the old techniques. Looked like the hand of someone trained in Avalon. That kind of skill."

"Demona saved her," he said to himself, as if tasting the idea. "And Demona called for help?"

"Yes," said Aline. "When I got there you were lying half-conscious and soaking wet on the shore of the reservoir. Elisa was beginning to stir. _What happened, Goliath_? Who shot her, and why were you mostly drowned?"

"I," he began, and broke off, coughing. He couldn't stop the fit, couldn't catch his breath, couldn't help it; he hardly knew when Aline helped him sit up, her arms, tiny compared to his, supporting him as he struggled to breathe. At last the spasms let him go, and he collapsed back against the wall, exhausted. The fire in his lungs had deepened to a red-hot iron band around his chest, burning fingers of pain clawing at him with every breath. Aline smoothed his hair away from his forehead.

"Hush," she said, quietly. "Don't talk. I'll get help."

"I don't need—" he managed, but she cut him off.

"Goliath," she said sharply. "Xanatos put something in the water. You're not only suffering from the aftereffects of drowning, you're also being affected by his poisons. I think I can help you if you let me."

He lay back, subsiding, against the stones. She got to her feet and went out on the parapet, through the tiny door in the clock face, and looked up into the sky. It had been an interesting day, she thought, using the word "interesting" in its most Chinese sense.

From the depths of her trenchcoat she produced a small black device which might at first glance have been taken for a cell phone, and pressed in a coded sequence of numbers. Within minutes, the night sky took shape and form as a gleaming black aircraft appeared out of nowhere, the two red lights blinking at its wingtips the only real indication that it was there at all. It hovered just above the parapet; a door slid open, and a black-clad figure emerged, stepping lightly down to the stonework with the oiled grace of total physical control.

"Aline," he said, in a low, weary voice. "It's been a long time."

"Too long, Bruce," she said, and took him in her arms for a long moment. "I called you because I think you can help me. Goliath....you know Goliath, remember, from the incident in Central Park? Well, he nearly drowned tonight. That would be bad enough, but the reservoir where it happened was contaminated with something. Xanatos is up to his old tricks again, and this time he's enlisted the help of our old buddy Roland Daggett."

"Daggett," he repeated on a long indrawn breath. "I see. You think this has something to do with the Daggett Industries viral labs?"

"I do. I also think that, if memory serves, you have a sort of universal antidote to this sort of thing."

"Yes," he said. "After the Cat Scratch Fever incident I took the precaution of preparing a lot of antidotes. Can I see Goliath?"

"Of course. He's pretty ill, though."

His only answer was a quick squeeze of her hands before he slipped past her and into the clock tower. She left them alone, staring out into the Gotham sky, the Batwing humming contentedly a few feet above her. She could remember so well the other encounter they'd had with Daggett, which had resulted in Selina Kyle's near-death. Daggett should have been behind bars, she thought furiously, as she had thought then. But Daggett's wealth and connections had provided for him a lawyer as slimy and despicable as Daggett himself, and he had slid out of the grip of the justice system like a new-caught fish slides out of the hand; no matter how hard you squeeze, you cannot keep hold of the prisoner.

Batman reappeared at her shoulder, looking inscrutable. It was something he did well. She considered him; she had not seen him for almost two months, and he looked like he'd been working solidly for those two months: he was as tall and muscular as ever, but there was an exhaustion about him that had never been there before, and he looked thinner. He rested his elbows on the parapet and stared with her out into the dark.

"You're right," he said, "it's definitely one of Daggett's little creations. I think I've got something that will help him, though."

"Thank you," she said, simply. "Bruce, have you had any sleep at all in the past forty-eight hours?"

He leaned his head on his clasped hands, considering. "I think so," he said at length. "What about you, Aline? You look tired. Lovely, as usual, but a bit worn."

"Thanks ever so," she said sourly. "I'm all right. It's been a long day."

"It's been a long week," he sighed. "Doesn't it all look so innocent, from up here? All those little lights, all warm and safe and comfortable. You'd never think that this sort of shit goes on down there."

"I was just thinking that," she said. "Most of them don't even know of our existence. They just sort of go on, day to day, and hope that everything turns out right."

"Do you ever regret it?" he asked her suddenly. "This life?"

She looked at him. The vivid ice-blue eyes were veiled, unreadable behind the impersonal mask. "Sometimes. And then I think, what would I be doing? I'd probably go mad with boredom. And in our line of work, you get to meet such _interesting_ people."

"Boredom," said Batman solemnly, "is not an issue." He kissed her lightly, then sprang into the cockpit of his ship. "I'll send Robin round with the antidote. Take care, Aline."

"You too. And get some damn sleep," she called after him. The sound of his laughter drifted on the night air, fading only after she could no longer see the red winglights of the Batwing.

_Beyond the Palace hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard_

_ Girls comb their hair in the rearview mirrors and the boys try to look so hard_

_ The amusement park rises bold and stark_

_ Kids are huddled on the beach in a mist_

_ I want to die with you Wendy on the streets tonight_

_ In an everlasting kiss....._

"They don't write songs like that anymore," said Christine Redhart, happily. "Isn't it great? A modern and less predictable version of all those Fifties car songs."

"Huh," said her companion, without enthusiasm. "There's a reason they don't write songs like that anymore."

"Okay, okay, okay, what do you want to listen to?"

The 6-CD changer clicked around, and the car was suddenly filled with delicate, dangerous notes. Chris sighed. "Fair enough. Are you trying to make a point?"

"What, me? I'd never be this obvious," he said, as the song got into stride.

_New blood joins this earth_

_ Then quickly he's subdued_

_ Through constant pained disgrace_

_ The young boy learns the rules....._

_What I've felt, what I've known, never shined through in what I've shown_

_ Never free, never me, so I dub thee unforgiven....._

"I just happen to like this song," said Karr, as they rocketed towards the dawn of Gotham City. "It has nothing to do with the individual to whom you refer."

"Oh no?" said Chris, raising an eyebrow at him. "You've got to stop thinking that every young gas station attendant I hold a conversation with is going to steal my favor away from you. I've told you this before: I only want you, my supercharged, jealous darling."

"I am _not_ jealous," he informed her firmly. "But, honestly, I think you might have tipped him a bit much. I mean, all he did was clean the dead bugs off my windshield. He didn't even fill up the tank; you did that yourself."

"You know I don't trust anyone to do that but myself. Not after what happened last year." Chris ran a gentle finger over the steering wheel. "He was very interested in you, and very appreciative. He said that you were the most beautiful car he's seen, ever."

"Yes, well, he would, wouldn't he?" said Karr, as if this was obvious. It was, actually; the raven-black, gleaming Trans Am body was one of the most exquisite works of art Chris was personally aware of, but she rather thought Karr's ego was well-nourished enough already, and she sat back in the seat with a sigh of mingled exasperation and appreciation.

"You're a conceited brat," she told him, but without rancor.

"But you love me," he pointed out, as if needing reaffirmation of this.

"Yes, I love you," she told him gently. "Now shut up and drive, sweetheart, and do try to keep to within ten miles of the limit? FLAG can only do so much about our tickets."

Karr grumbled, but he did slow them down to a sedate seventy. The Metallica song ended, and he switched the CD over to one of her mixes. The first track happened to be _Stairway to Heaven_, and they both shut up and listened to the entire song without one argument, which was, Chris thought, something of a record.

They came into Gotham just as dawn was breaking, to the accompaniment of U2's _Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me_, sung lustily and not too inaccurately by Chris as well as the band. She took over for the tricky navigation through the maze of traffic and one-way streetsof downtown Gotham. "Tell me again," said Karr, "exactly why we went into the city, instead of around?"

"Because I've got friends here," said Chris. "Don't worry, love, we'll be out of here by tonight."

"Good," he said. "The air here is horrendous." He coughed a little, for effect. Chris sighed, stroking his voice panel.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It won't be for long. Maybe you need new filters."

Both of them knew that he was just fine, and both of them knew that the other knew; nevertheless, Karr often played for attention like this. He was still, Chris was aware, having difficulty truly believing that he could be loved, and thus requiring constant proof of it. She was happy to indulge him. She would die for him. But for the moment, she merely made soothing noises and stroked his wheel, as she might calm a child.

She parked him outside Elisa Maza's apartment building. "Watch out for car thieves," she said. "That's one bad thing about being so damn pretty, everybody wants you."

"I can take care of myself," he said. "Don't be too long, though, Chris, I want to get back out into open country." Again, the little cough, shivering him on his alloy rims.

She shook her head. He should be on the stage.

No one answered the door. She could hear Cagney, Elisa's cat, mewing.

Huh. Well, served her right for not calling first. She was just about to leave when a tall, red-haired woman of astonishing porcelain beauty came out of the elevator behind her.

"Elisa's not there," she said. Chris whirled, took in the newcomer.

"Ah," she began, "I'm Christine Redhart, a friend of hers from out of town, just thought I'd stop by---"

"I'm sorry," said the woman, and her porcelain face warmed to life. "I thought you were the press. I'm Aline Grey; I'm also one of Elisa's friends. Have you come far?"

"From California," said Chris without thinking. "No, I mean I was just sort of passing through this area, and thought I might stop and see her. Is she out of town?"

"I'm afraid she's in hospital," said Aline. "She's okay. Or she will be soon. Injured in the line of duty, and so on. I came to feed her cat."

"I see," said Chris. "Which hospital?"

"Gotham City General," said Aline. "If you can hold on a few minutes, I'll go with you, if I may?"

"Of course," said Chris. The other woman unlocked Elisa's door, dissuaded Cagney from streaking out into the hallway by scooping him up, and followed Chris inside.

"Mrow," she said to Cagney. He lay in her arms, feet sticking up in a most undignified manner, and regarded her with half-lidded eyes. Chris grinned.

"He's gotten fat," she said, taking a can of cat food from the pantry and opening it. "Here, delicious beef chunks in beef-flavored gunk. How you can _eat _this crap is anyone's guess, Cagney." Despite the unlovely appearance of the stuff, the cat leapt from Aline's arms and scuttled across the floor to his bowl. "Looks like that's him taken care of," she said.

"Indeed." Aline looked around. "Nice place. I'm surprised she can afford it on a cop salary."

"I went to the Academy with Elisa," said Chris, absently. "We all knew she'd make it someday. She held Best All-Division Sidearm Shot for four years."

"Damn," said Aline, impressed. "I can pretty much hit the correct side of a barn door, but I'd never get that good."

Chris studied the other woman. "You shoot?"

"My father taught me," she said. "Along with how to drive and how to drink and how to smoke."

"You don't look at all the sort of person who'd like that kind of thing," said Chris. "Sorry. That was dumb."

"No it wasn't. I know, I do have this sort of ice-queen thing, but it's more self-preservation than anything else. You're a cop?"

"Kind of," said Chris. "You might call me a private investigator, if you felt so inclined."

"I see," said Aline, amusedly. "Shall we go?"

"Certainly. My car or yours?"

"I took a taxi," said Aline. "My God, you didn't find a place to park around here? No one can bloody find a place to park within a radius of two miles!"

"There was a space right in front of the door," Chris shrugged. They left, taking the elevator down the thirty floors, and emerged right in front of Karr.

"See? Not even a hydrant to get me in trouble."

"That is your car?" said Aline, eyes wide. "Christ, girl, that's impressive."

"Shh," Chris warned. "He's already conceited enough. –I know, you think I'm nuts. Get in, and you'll see what I mean."

Aline raised an eyebrow at her, but got in, not noticing until afterwards that the door had opened of its own volition to let her in.

"This is incredible," said the redhead as Chris got in and started the engine. "It's like the....um....never mind."

"The Batmobile? Yes, he often gets compared to the Batmobile."

"Honestly," said Karr, "that is an entirely fictitious automobile, and is thus not grounds for comparison. You haven't introduced me to your friend."

"It's all right," said Chris, easing them out of the parking space. "Meet Karr, my partner."

"Car?"

"Karr. Two Rs and a K. Karr, this is Aline Grey, a friend of a friend. We're going to visit the friend I hoped to visit originally, who happens to be in the hospital, so we're going to be in Gotham a little longer than I had planned. Sorry, love."

"You don't like the city?" said Aline, shakily.

"It's the air," Karr confided. "It's filthy. I'm a very sensitive precision machine, you see, and...."

"Oh, hush," said Chris good-naturedly. "I'm sure Aline doesn't want to hear about your myriad ailments."

"No, go ahead," said Aline. "Please, I'm fascinated. I haven't heard such a lovely voice in years. Besides, the idea of a sentient car has always been one of my fond imaginings, you see, and it's rather difficult to realize that you're real, and that I'm riding in you."

"You'll spoil him," Chris warned. Nevertheless she thought perhaps Karr might benefit from some pure unalloyed admiration, from someone who was a little more articulate than the gas-station attendant.

"I am," Karr resumed, "a precision machine, and my air intake filters can't take this kind of pollution. It's the same with dusty roads. You've no idea how uncomfortable a clogged air filter can be."

"I can see that would be difficult for you," said Aline sympathetically. "Perhaps you'd better let me take a look. I've fitted several, ah, precision machines with specialized filtering equipment specifically for this kind of air pollution load."

"You're a mechanic?" Chris inquired, making a left.

"Kind of," Aline yawned. "Generally they run better and cleaner with micropore filters, but it cuts down on the rate of intake. You might just be better off changing the filters more often."

"Okay," said Chris, "I am totally mystified. What do you do, Aline?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," said the other woman, looking out of the window, "and I'm afraid I can't."

"I see," said Chris. "I won't pry. It's just that you seem to have a rather eclectic collection of accomplishments. You look, as I am sure you know, like a model."

"People tell me that," said Aline dolefully. "I've tried that, too, and I don't like it one bit. The photographers are all scumbags who pretend to be Italian in order to get girls, and the makeup makes me break out. It's not at all as glamorous as it seems."

"I'll take your word for it," said Chris, pulling them to a stop in front of the grand Gotham General building. "See? Another magic parking space, just like that."

Aline told Karr to take care of himself and get his filters seen to, and they went up into the towering hospital, gleaming in the morning light.

"I can't believe what I just saw, heard and had a conversation with," remarked Aline as they rode up in the elevator. "You are so lucky, Christine."

"Chris, please. I know. He's the best thing that ever happened to me, and certainly the only person....entity.....I've ever really loved. He's sort of a secret too, but generally people think either it's a complicated hoax or we're making a movie, so I take him on vacation. Like now."

Aline gave her a heartrending smile. "You have no idea," she said quietly, "how much I envy you."

Elisa lay in a high white bed, two tubes snaking from her arm to bags of clear fluid on dripstands, her face closed and weary. White bandaging swathed her chest and side, but there were no electrodes and no beeping monitors to disturb her sleep. They tiptoed in, and Aline bent over the figure in the bed, whispered something.

"Goliath," murmured Elisa, coming awake. "Goliath."

"He's fine. Worried about you, but fine."

"Aline," said Elisa, her eyes focusing slowly, their brown deepening as she recognized her visitor. "What happened?"

"I don't know," said Aline. "I got there afterward. We think Demona saved you both."

"Demona."

At that name, Elisa closed her eyes for a long moment. Aline stepped back. "Chris is here to see you, Elisa," she murmured.

"Chris?"

Chris came to the bed. "Remember me? All those late night panty raids we planned on the men's dormitory at the Academy?"

"Of course, " said Elisa. "But weren't you living in California?"

"Yup. I'm on holiday, driving round the Gotham State area. Jesus, Elisa, what happened to you? Honorable war wounds?"

"Something like that," said Elisa, as a shadow crossed her face. "I had to protect someone."

Chris knew what that was like. She changed the subject. "Well, you'll be happy to know that Cagney's being well fed," she said. "He got fat, Elisa. I thought he used to do wind sprints with you?"

"Ah, but we were all a lot younger then," said Elisa with a straight face. "God, it's good to see you, Chris. What are you doing? Still part of LA's Finest?"

"Not exactly," she said."Sort of freelance work. Private investigating, I guess you could call it."

"Do you wear a trenchcoat and a fedora, in the best tradition of Philip Marlowe?"

"Of course. And I drink straight bourbon and have a small dusty office with filing cabinets."

"Excellent. Glad to hear it." Elisa gave her sixty percent of her best smile.

Just then, Aline's pocket beeped, and she dug out a black cell phone, taking it outside to the corridor with an apologetic smile. Chris glanced at Elisa. "What does she do for a living?"

"All kinds of things," said Elisa mysteriously. "She doesn't tell me half the stuff she does. Classified. But she's marvellous, one of the best friends I've ever had."

"She seems terribly competent, but not obnoxious about it."

"Exactly."

The door burst open, and Aline came in. "Chris, this is really rude, and Elisa, I'm sorry, but I've got to get across town right now. Sorry—" and she took off down the hall. Chris stuck her head out the door and yelled.

"Aline! Wait up, I'll give you a ride, my car's the fastest in this city!"

Aline stopped, considered, trotted back towards her. "Okay. Thanks. But please don't tell anyone about where we're going."

"Whatever you like. Elisa, I'll be back, but you better hurry up and heal, okay?"

"I'll do my best," said Elisa, amused.

"Where _are_ we going?" Chris asked, once they were back in Karr and moving.

"Wayne Manor," said Aline, in a brittle voice.

Chris swung out into traffic. "Okay," she said, just like Dan Aykroyd in _The Blues Brothers_, just before he drives directly into a shopping mall. She picked up speed fast; they were going sixty by the time they reached the end of the block, and then she reached down and pressed a button on the console, jerking the wheel hard left as she did. Karr went up on one side, skiing along the city street on two wheels, nipping between taxicabs and crosstown buses with the ease of a motorcycle. Beside her she heard Aline swearing under her breath, using a vocabulary that would shame a marine, but she could spare her passenger little concentration. She put them back on four wheels to take a corner, skidded round a slow-moving car, and was up on two wheels again to slot herself neatly between lanes of traffic. At one point, she simply had to jump over the traffic at a red light, which scared Aline so badly she spent the rest of the journey with her eyes tight shut. It took about two minutes, all told, to get them from the hospital to the gates of Wayne Manor.

"When I said "right now," said Aline breathlessly, having opened her eyes, "what I meant is "with alacrity," not "with reckless abandon.""

"Ah, but you didn't specify that," said Chris. "Besides, Karr likes showing off. By the way, Karr, your air filters seem fine to me."

"Yes, well," said Karr. "A little healthy exercise never hurt anybody."

Aline stared at Chris for a moment. "What the hell am I thinking. You're most certainly on our side, and you can definitely keep a secret. Come on in."

She pressed a button on the cell-phone-like object, and the great wrought-iron gates swung open with oiled ease. Chris drove sedately through the gateway and pulled up in front of the grand house. They got out, and a butler opened the door for them. _Jesus,_ thought Chris, _a__ real live butler in this day and age. This guy must be rolling._

"Miss Grey," said the butler in a cut-glass English accent. "And...?"

"Christine Redhart," said Chris.

"Miss Redhart. Do come in."

"Thank you, Alfred," said Aline. "Miss Redhart has been good enough to help me get here as quickly as I could. I think she deserves an explanation, or two, or fourteen."

"Of course," said Alfred. He led the way through a palatial entrance hall to a sitting room. "Miss Grey, he is waiting for you."

Aline nodded and disappeared through a passageway, leaving Chris and Alfred alone. The butler regarded her with a disarming lack of concern.

"I can see," he said, "that you are not exactly part of the normal civilian running of the world. The Knight Automated Roving Robot is rather hard to miss."

"You know....?"

"Yes, Miss Redhart, I do; and I am pleased to say I have heard of you, and your exploits. Devon Miles's old-boy network reaches coast-to-coast. Let me explain a little of what you see around you."

"Please do," said Christine, sitting down on a leather sofa. Alfred smiled at her.

"Very well. This is the ancestral pile of the Wayne family, of which you have no doubt heard. Master Bruce Wayne is the last scion of the family, but his ward Richard Grayson is entailed to receive the estate should anything happen to him. Master Bruce is, like yourself, somewhat separated from the rank and file of normal citizens. Miss Redhart, I hope I may rely on your discretion in this matter?"

"Yes, of course, Alfred," she said, thinking hard. He went to a grandfather clock set against one wall of the room, opened the face and turned the hands.There was a sudden clunking noise, and the entire section of wall shivered and began to turn on a hidden pivot. Impressive, thought Chris, and then as the dank, dungeonlike staircase beyond was revealed, theatrical.

"If you would care to follow me, miss?"

Aline Grey paced the acres of carpet before the great windows in Bruce Wayne's bedroom. He had done this before, and doubtless would do it again, but she had never learned quite how to deal with it. Without turning to the figure in the great silk-hung bed, she folded her arms and scowled fiercely. "Bruce, you idiot," she said, "how did you get into this situation?"

"It was unavoidable," said the low voice from the bed. "Justice needed to be served."

"Justice be damned," said Aline wearily. "How bad is it?"

"Six broken ribs, loss of blood. Not much."

"Not much? What about the fever?" she exploded. "Christ, Bruce, this city needs you! I can't do half of what they expect. If you don't take care of yourself, who will?"

"The fever," he said with exaggerated patience, "is nothing. A cold I acquired from being locked up outside all night in a snowstorm. Nothing a day or so of rest and some aspirin won't fix."

Aline stalked over to the bed, laid the back of her hand on his hot, dry forehead. "Alfred says otherwise," she said. "Alfred, who I am more inclined to trust in such matters, says you're out of commission for a few weeks at least."

He looked up at her, and the smoky sapphire eyes were just a little more than she could bear. She sat down on the bed, her face losing its stern authority, and traced the line of his cheekbone with one manicured finger. "Bruce, my love," she said, more quietly, "it hurts me to see you like this. Please, think of yourself from time to time....? I'll take care of Gotham for as long as I must, but I would rather be here with you. I'll send for Selina."

"No," he said. "Selina and I...are not exactly close, right now. I think Alfred called you here because he knows I need you here, now, with me. Robin and the others can hold down the waves of darkness for a few days."

She looked at him, saw the black hair flopping untidily over his forehead, the sky-colored eyes a little too bright beneath their dark brows, the mouth like a knife-cut, delicately modelled but seldom smiling; saw the breadth of his shoulders, the way the bandages strapping his chest rose and fell with the breathing which, she knew, must be painful to him.

"Yes," she said, simply.

The day stretched into evening, and as the burning sun sank behind the crenellated skyline, the Gargoyles came awake. One by one, their stone prisons cracked, and crumbled, and fell to dust; and the night was suddenly full of leathery wings as they stretched away the long day's stiffness.

Lexington and Broadway hopped down off the parapet, yawning. Both of them were still hazy with the stone-dreams of the day; the sound of a deep voice spun them around, woke them completely to reality. Goliath was standing by the parapet, his great wings folded over his shoulders in a heavy cloak.

"Goliath, lad," said Hudson from behind them. "Good to see you back with us."

"It's good to be back," said Goliath, not without a certain irony. "It's not quite time to celebrate, though. Whatever Xanatos did to the water in the reservoir is going to need to be fixed, and we must do our best to stop him doing it again. Broadway, go check out the reservoir. See what you can find, and try to be subtle. Take Bronx with you. Lexington, stay here and guard the castle. Hudson, come with me."

"Hey," Lexington protested. "How come I have to stay here?"

Goliath merely looked at him, and Lexington recalled the last time he'd seen his leader, desperately ill and only half-conscious; remembered the red glow of his eyes in the darkness, as they bore him back to the clock tower. Remembered the terrible fear.

"Never mind," he muttered. "Guarding the castle, as ordered."

"Good," said Goliath, evenly, and sprang from the parapet, his wings unfolding, swooping upwards on the night wind, waiting for Hudson to join him.

They circled low over the reservoir, which looked deceptively innocent, a black pool gently lapping under the magnesium-arc lamps of the parking lot. Water Department trucks were parked all around the perimeter, and they saw clear evidence of testing going on. Aline had said something after she had injected him with the serum, something about having called the department and told them to close the Gotham Reservoir immediately, to get the city's water from some other source, and to ask Mr. David Xanatos about the costs of cleaning up the water supply. He could not think clearly at the time, but he remembered thanking her, being quite unable to find words or actions to express how much she had helped him, and Elisa, and indeed the entire city. Aline was in many ways the mother of Gotham. She helped it up when it fell down, stopped people from blowing bits of it up, poisoning it or taking it over, and in general assisted it in keeping its metaphorical nose clean. And Aline was never off duty.

How he had loved her, when he first met her, years ago now; how she had introduced him, gently and joyfully, to a world of marvels he had not hitherto known existed. And how she had helped him befriend Elisa, when they came upon one another suddenly; Aline had known, almost immediately, that Elisa was to be a vital part of Goliath's life.

And it was not Aline who had saved them both last night, he thought suddenly and unwelcomely; it was Demona, who should have been Dominique Destine, in Paris, with Macbeth. What had called her back, now? Why was she working again with Xanatos, and why had she saved him from the dark embrace of the water? He had never understood her, although he loved her so painfully at times that he was blind.

Abruptly he veered to the south, towards the great dazzlingly-lit hulk of Gotham City General; he heard, behind him, the whistle of wind as Hudson banked to follow him. He spiraled downwards, searching the lit rows of windows, until he found the one he wanted; and folded his wings, and came lightly to rest on the side of the building, claws digging into the stone.

Hudson pulled up beside him, glanced in. "Ah," said the older Gargoyle, softly. Goliath didn't look at him as he hooked a claw into the windowlatch and drew it gently open.

"This is incredible," said Christine Redhart, absently. "You know that, don't you."

"You might say the same of what you do," said Alfred. "Not many people have the luxury of full-body cruise control_ and a_ constant companion who can see through walls."

"You have a point." She fingered the crumpled Batsuit, hung over the back of a chair. The fabric was soft, almost silky, but resilient; she tapped it with a finger, and judged that at least the torso was reinforced with Kevlar or something similar. Probably more advanced, by the feel of it. The cave was lit dimly by thousands of status lights on computers, and was full of a gentle hum, much like the tech rooms back at the Knight mansion. And off to one side, gleaming like an obsidian blade, was the Batmobile.

Alfred saw her glance at it, and led the way to where it stood beneath a lightwell. She ran sensuous fingers over its curves (definitely female, she thought), felt the power radiating from it even now, at rest. It looked, in the words of Bill Mitchell, creator of the Stingray, like it was going like hell just sitting still. "It's beautiful," said Chris. "I've always thought so, but....well, close up, it just sort of takes the breath away."

"Alfred?" said someone behind them. Chris turned to see a young man, not more than twenty or so, standing on the steps. He was quite unreasonably handsome, and made her think of 1940s _films noir: _black hair, carefully parted on the side, well-tailored trousers and a spotless white shirt beneath a fitted vest. She expected him to pull out a monogrammed cigarette case and inquire if anyone was for tennis. Instead, he scowled fiercely at her and flicked a disapproving gaze to the butler. "Alfred, who is this girl?"

"May I present Miss Christine Redhart, Master Dick," said Alfred smoothly. "A friend of Miss Grey's, and the partner of the Knight Automated Roving Robot, whom you have no doubt seen parked on the front drive."

The young man's face changed. He gave Chris a smile that, she thought, must reduce most girls to an ecstatic puddle on the floor, and came across the great echoing cave to meet them. His handshake was firm and confident. "My God," he said reverentially. She thought absently, _He looks like Johnny Depp._ "I'm sorry, I didn't make the connection. Of course. You're Dave Redhart's daughter?"

"I'm afraid so," said Chris ruefully. "And I know most of the secrets around here already, so you might have to kill me, but may I ask who you are?"

"Sorry. Dick Grayson." He glanced at Alfred, who nodded. "I, too, have a secret," he added. "Every superhero has to have a sidekick, or so I am told: meet Master Bruce's sidekick. I'm the Boy Wonder."

"You are, are you," she said, attempting gravity. "Most pleased to meet you, Boy Wonder. I'm sorry for appearing so unannounced and forcing everyone to go into orgies of self-explanation, but I happened to encounter Aline Grey while visiting Elisa Maza at the hospital-" here Dick's large grey eyes went briefly, brilliantly blue—"and she required a ride across town as quickly as possible, so I brought her here."

"In the K.A.R.R.?"

"In Karr, yes. He prefers to be called that."

"Do you....do you think maybe I could meet him?" asked Dick humbly. She was struck by the contrast between his manner now and when she had first seen him, imperious, looking sort of like the young Rudolph Valentino.

"Yes, of course," she said. "It's the least I can do for making such an annoyance of myself." Brushing aside Alfred's protests that of course she was no such thing, she led the way back up the winding rock-hewn steps to the bright and expensive world of the mansion. Alfred disappeared to procure coffee, and Chris led Dick out to the gravel drive.

"Finally," said Karr, on seeing her. "It's been long enough. What _have _you been doing in there?"

"Learning secrets, sweetheart." She turned to Dick, who was staring much as a small child at his first sight of the ocean, or a 747, or the gates of Heaven, might stare. "Do you think it would be possible for me to park him inside somewhere? He doesn't much like the cold of the night air."

"Uh," said Dick, inelegantly, "of course. Sure. Um."

"Karr," she said, "I'd like you to meet Dick Grayson. I'm afraid your beauty and fame have temporarily robbed him of speech."

"A natural reaction," said Karr, flattered. "Hello, Dick."

"This is incredible," said Dick. "I mean, I'd heard of you, vague stories, and of Kitt, of course, but I've never dreamed I'd actually get to meet you. Is it true you can fly?"

"Not exactly," said Karr. "I can jump over things, though. Such as fairly short buildings."

Dick laughed a little. "What about the legend that you went into a demolition derby and emerged unscathed?"

"That was Kitt, actually, but I could do the same thing." He paused, getting into stride. "Take that rock and throw it at me as hard as you can."

Chris sighed, took a seat far enough away from Karr so as not to be hit by flying shrapnel, and watched. Dick was staring at the Trans Am in disbelief.

"What?" he asked. "I'm not going to throw rocks at you. I _idolize_ you, for God's sake."

"Never mind. Just throw the rock, as hard as you can."

Chris got up and selected a largish piece of gravel. "Would this do?"

"Perfectly."

She wound up and hurled the rock directly at Karr's gleaming black hood. There was a pinging noise and shards of granite flew everywhere; when they uncovered their eyes, the hood was as perfect as before. Not a dent, not a ripple, not a chip in the finish.

"My God," said Dick. "How can....?"

"It's a special finish," said Chris. "Go on, touch it."

Dick reached out a tentative hand and smoothed it over Karr's paintwork. "Wow. It's soft. And warm. I'm sorry if I sound like a retard, but you'll have to forgive me; this is all fairly new to me."

"It's okay. What got me in the beginning was that not only was he terribly technically advanced, he was also a thoroughly individual personality. People tend to not understand how to deal with him."

"Not," put in Karr sourly, "that I know how to deal with them. People respond to me two ways: either they run away screaming or they say "Oooh, it can talk!"

"How unimaginative," said Dick, amusedly. "It's getting cold; perhaps you'd like to move inside?"

"Finally," said Karr, "a human with some sense. You should associate with him more, Chris."

"Quiet, you," she said, but without rancor. Both of them knew none of these little acerbic remarks were for real; it was a way of assuring each other that everything was okay. If Karr _didn't_ make snide comments every ten minutes or so, Chris would get seriously worried.

Karr fired his engine and rolled sedately along the drive, following Dick, to where the multi-car garage loomed in the gathering dusk. Dick thumbed a keypad by one of the doors, and it slid whisperingly up to reveal a brightly lit, warm space as big as a low-roofed hangar. Chris looked around in awe. How rich was Bruce Wayne really? she wondered. How many small Middle Eastern oil-producing countries could he buy?

"Is there anything I can get you?" Dick was asking Karr, with the calm concern of the very good waiter. He was standing in front of the black Trans Am, and Chris could see quite clearly that he, like every other human who had found himself nose-to-nose with Karr, was finding it slightly intimidating to be faced with that pointed black prow.

"I don't think so, thank you," said Karr, and revved his engine experimentally before shutting it off. "Ah, that's a lot better. Actually, Chris, I really do think I've got something stuck in that filter, it feels pretty clogged." His voice had lost the sardonic tone it had previously held, and she knew he really was feeling odd. She nodded.

"Dick, is there anywhere around here I could get hold of some heavy-duty air filters?"

"Air intake filters, the sort that go over the carb? Yeah, I've got some," he said quickly. "Hold on, I'll be back." He disappeared down a row of cars towards the far wall of the garage, where there was a plethora of parts and equipment for servicing Mr. Wayne's collection. She reached into Karr's cabin and popped the hood release, propping open the acre of black steel, and frowned at the air-cleaner housing.

"How long has it been feeling like that?" she asked, unscrewing the chromed cover.

"Not long, really," he said. "The air here _is_ filthy, but it wasn't bothering me until we got halfway across town—" He lost the sentence in a reflexive cough as Chris slid a finger under the air cleaner cartridge and pulled out a piece of half-melted cellophane that had been sucked in, heated, and stretched into a membrane over the intake.

"There," she said, shaking the plastic off her finger. "Talk about pollution. Is that any better?"

"Yeah," said Karr, getting his breath back. "Uck. Take the filter off, would you, and see if there's any more in there?"

"Damn," said Dick, coming up behind them with a brand-new filter ring. "I _thought_ I heard you coughing. Would this fit?"

Chris wiggled the old filter off, ran a glance along the serial marks on the bottom, and swapped it for the one Dick held. "Perfectly. You're psychic, Boy Wonder. Karr, there's nothing else in there that I can see...hold on a sec, I'm going to poke your carb valves...." Swiftly, she pushed open each of the four barrels of his left carburetor, made sure they were spotless, and quickly seated the new air filter into place before Karr had time to gag. "Okay, let's have a look at the right filter," she muttered, and repeated the process. This time, the filter was fairly clean, but she exchanged it for a new one anyway. "All right," she told Karr when she was finished, "is there anything else you need?"

"Probably," he said with the air of one who _knows_ the dentist hasn't stopped drilling yet and is unwilling to open his eyes. "Can't think of it right now."

Christine closed the hood again, leaned into his cabin and whispered very softly, "My love, I'm sorry I didn't do anything about the filters before. I didn't know how bad you were feeling. Get some rest. I've got a feeling we're both going to be needed fairly soon." She brushed a kiss along the curve of his wheel, and stood, and left. Dick followed, after a last longing glance.

"What was that all about?" he asked her once they'd left the garage.

"What? Oh, Karr's what we in the business call a raving hypochondriac, but sometimes he's actually right; this time, there _was_ something in the filter which could have been really nasty if I hadn't got it out. Also, he doesn't much like people poking around in his carburetors. He says it's like people sticking fingers down your throat."

Dick nodded, eyebrows raised as if this made perfect sense to him. "You realize," he said, "that this time yesterday I could've sworn you didn't exist?"

"Yeah," she said, "because I could've sworn you didn't either. You and Batman. Where is he, anyway? I'm dying to meet him."

"I don't know," said Dick. "Probably either at a board meeting or out saving the city. Come on in and let's see if we can find Alfred and that coffee he was supposed to be making."

Inside, they found Aline, looking very tight-lipped and dangerous, sitting on a butter-soft leather sofa in one of the myriad drawing rooms. Alfred stood between her and the man facing her, with something of the air of a mediator. Or a referee.

Chris felt the world shift slightly in its gimbals. The man facing Aline was wearing a dark red dressing-gown, his black hair falling untidily but glossily over his forehead. His eyes were a very brilliant dark blue, the color of the sky through a Polaroid filter. He couldn't be much younger than thirty, she thought clinically, but he looked very young, especially with that raven's feather hair emphasizing the slight pallor of his face.

A face which, had it been carved in alabaster or Carrara marble, would have served as the model for entire civilizations' worth of art; a face which held the delicate balance of a Murillo saint and the innate strength of a Caravaggio street-dweller. A face of strange opposites; the jaw, square and cleft and faintly shadowed with stubble beneath the aristocrat's blade of a nose; the blue eyes, thick-lashed as a girl's, beneath the lowering brows. He was not, thought Chris, a man who had found life easy, despite his wealth.

For she was absolutely sure that this was Bruce Wayne. Who else could it possibly be?

Alfred was setting down the coffee cups. "Ah, Miss Redhart, Master Dick," he said, elegantly. "Master Bruce has been expecting you."

"Master Bruce," repeated Aline thinly, "is a thick-skulled, stubborn-willed idiot of a man who is too self-possessed to have a conception of cause and effect."

Bruce Wayne turned to them with the edges of an amused smile on his lips. "Aline flatters me too much," he said. Chris was surprised to find that his voice was almost half an octave lower than Dick's, dark and musing, with an edge on it rather like Karr's. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Redhart." He offered her a hand.

Dreamlike, she moved forward, made as if to shake hands with him, but instead he caught her hand and raised it to his lips with such assured elegance that she knew he did this a lot. His lips were _hot_ against her skin. Hot and dry.

She said, "The pleasure, as I am sure you are aware, is mine." He met her blue gaze with his own for a moment before breaking into genuine laughter. She found herself rather liking him, despite the terrifying beauty he exuded (a quality which Chris immediately distrusted in anyone, no matter how charming).

"Quite," he said. "Welcome to my house. I've heard how you and the K.A.R.R. brought Aline here. Thank you for that, by the way."

"Doesn't seem to have made much of a difference," said Aline tiredly. "Bruce, stop being charming and go to bed, damn you. Chris, will you please point out to him that broken ribs need time to heal?"

"Broken ribs?" she repeated stupidly. Bruce Wayne's eyes didn't waver.

"Hardly broken," he qualified. "Cracked. Nothing to worry about."

So that was it. She had been wondering what about him seemed strange, put-on, and only after Aline had pointed it out did she see that he was holding himself very, very still, as if the air itself pressed on him, and breathing very shallowly and slowly. Dick, beside her, was staring at his guardian with a mixture of worry and annoyance, something like Aline's expression. "How long?" he demanded.

"Last night."

"Jesus, Bruce, when did you get in? I thought you were here all night."

"I was called at about two-forty-five," he said. "You were already gone when I got back. Dick," he added carefully, and there was a warning in the voice now, "I'm sure Miss Redhart doesn't want to hear us engaging in filial squabbling. Change the subject."

Chris drank off her coffee. "Fair enough," she said. "Lousy weather we've been having, huh."

"Indeed," said Bruce, with a lightning-fast glance at Aline. "Snow isn't all that common in the city. Last night's storm was an aberration."

"Yes," said Aline. "And it began as rain....Dick, could I speak to you briefly? Alone?"

Dick rose and accompanied her to the far side of the great room. Alfred, having caught Bruce's glance, withdrew with the silence of the impeccably-trained, and Chris was alone facing Bruce. She thought absently of Aline's comments.

"You mustn't listen to her," he said, as if reading her mind. "She is one of the most intelligent people on the planet, but when it comes to me she seems to have a blind spot."

"Concern," said Chris. "She loves you." She gasped. "Sorry. That was unforgivable. I didn't mean to say it..."

"Why? You're right. Unfortunately, she won't come and live with me, so I have to make do with her occasional visits."

Chris looked at him steadily. "Look," she said. "I deal with people in a comparable line of work to yours, and I have to admit they behave much the same as you are now, so I've got to ask. What happened to you, and how did you get your ribs broken, and where did you acquire your fever?"

He looked at her for a long moment before raising a raven eyebrow. "How did you know?"

"Your eyes are too bright," she said. "That, and you're flushed. I felt it when you took my hand."

"Damn," he said meditatively. "It's nothing much. Just a cold or something. I was, ah, forced to spend last night outside. In the snow."

"I see," she said evenly. "And the ribs?"

"Lucky shot. I was wearing Kevlar, of course, but the impact was just right. They'll be all right, I've got them strapped up neatly. Really, Miss Redhart, this can't be that interesting. Why don't we talk about you?"

Chris held his gaze, steadily, for a long moment before shrugging. "As you wish. But they're right, you know. Of course Gotham needs you. That's the reason why you ought to ease off. I'll shut up," she added. "Not my business. Luckily my co-workers don't require bed rest."

"What is it like, being part of that team? I've always wondered."

"It's marvelous," she said simply. "I cannot think of anything I would rather do. It was pure luck that I got the job in the first place; you probably know that Michael Knight, the other operative, was chosen because he was conveniently shot in the face and so Wilton's surgeons could put a completely different face on him and start him off in a completely new life. Since they eased up on the total-secrecy bit after Karr was returned to them, they didn't find it necessary to find another nonexistent person to match with him. I had been under their surveillance for a while, because of my history with racing and my training with the LAPD, so when they knocked on my door in the dead of night, I was already mostly accepted into the ranks." She paused, remembering the quiet cool of that night, the last night she had ever been alone.

"You don't have to worry about the secret identity thing," he said amusedly. "That's always been a thorn in my side. Oh, I'll admit it's nice to be able to put on the mask and the persona at once, and be someone completely different for a night, but it's pretty damn inconvenient in the long run."

"I can imagine," she said. "When, after all, do you sleep? If you have to be Bruce all day and Batman all night...."

"There are ways," he said inscrutably. She nodded.

"I won't pry. Ah. Aline returns. Look," she said quietly. "Tell her what she wants to hear, okay? At least as much as you can. She's eaten up with worry."

He gave her a flash from the sapphire eyes and a smile for her very own, and turned to face the red-haired woman who knelt down by his chair. "What have you and Dick been conspiring about?" he inquired.

"Nothing," she said. "I've got to go to the clock tower for a little while. Dick's been kind enough to offer me a ride. We should be back in about half an hour."

"Is this something to do with the Daggett Industries thing?"

"Yes. I'll explain when we come back." She rose, gathered her trenchcoat from the sofa, and followed Dick out towards the garages. Chris watched them go.

When she turned back, Bruce was standing by the carved mantelpiece, facing away from her. No, she realized, not standing by it; leaning on it. She went to him.

He waved her away, but didn't let go of the mantelpiece to do it. For the first time she truly understood just how burned out he was: this was the fatigue beyond rest that comes when movement itself is nearly impossible _but the mind will not let go_. She herself had experienced it once, when she and Karr had had to spend four days nonstop searching for Kitt, who had been deactivated and stolen, and in those four days, even when Karr was driving because she could hardly hold the wheel, she could not sleep, could not rest at all. The only way she'd gotten through it was by finding Kitt before her body gave up on her completely. She sensed that Bruce was nearing that point.

She put a hand on his shoulder, kept it there despite the weary glare he gave her. "Listen to me," she said very quietly. "Whatever is hanging on you cannot be worth this. Surely Dick and Aline can hold down the city for a day or so. Let it go."

"You don't understand," he said. "This city can't be let go. The criminals here are always on the alert for something like this. The slightest indication that I'm vulnerable and they're on me like a vulture....and worse than that, they attack the city when I can't defend it. They never sleep. That means I can't."

Chris dropped her gaze. Out of the corner of her eye she had seen Alfred enter the room behind them. There was a glint in his hand that she thought was probably a syringe.

"All right," she said, taking her hand away. "You know your limits better than me. But don't think you're alone against them, because you're not."

Alfred had crossed the room so quickly Chris hadn't even seen him move. He brought up the needle and, before Bruce had even had time to register his presence, had jammed it into the great muscle of his upper arm and depressed the plunger. Bruce hissed and made as if to turn to him, but his eyes rolled up in his head and he swayed, crumpled and fell into Alfred's arms. Together Chris and the butler carried the unconscious man from the room, down a hallway and into a well-appointed bedroom, depositing him on the bed. Alfred looked down at his master, sadly. "I hate having to do this," he said. "The drug is called talarine; it's an incredibly fast-acting sedative. It leaves only vague amnesia as a side effect. But it makes me feel like a worm."

"A worm who did the right thing," said Chris dryly. "I've had recourse to the same kind of tactics in my time, only mine consisted of a well-aimed blow to the jaw.You needn't feel bad, Alfred; you're doing him a massive favor."

"Am I?" said Alfred, and Chris knew he was no longer speaking to her. Tactfully she withdrew to the drawing room where she had first been shown, and sat down on the sofa. She had a feeling a great deal of bad shit was about to go down, and that something somewhere wanted her to be there when it did.

Can't argue with fate, she thought morosely, and lit a cigarette.

"Demona, my beautiful, stupid associate, why the hell did you do that?"

Demona, perched on a security camera's strut, stared down at Xanatos with eyes that could conceivably kill. "My reasons are my own, Xanatos," she snarled. "You achieved your objective. The reservoir was polluted. Be satisfied with that."

"You always did misunderstand," said Xanatos. "The reservoir was merely a means to an end. Which end, I might point out, was rendered impossible by your actions. Are you really still in love with that idiot Goliath?"

Demona, moving almost too fast to see, dropped to the ground and lifted Xanatos by the throat in one smooth movement. Infuriatingly, his face still held its gentle derision, even as it was turning purple from oxygen debt. "_You would do well,_" she hissed, "_not to speak of him in front of me._ I have honored my half of our agreement. It is your turn now."

Xanatos flicked an eyebrow at her, and she dropped him to the ground like a sack of gravel. Gasping, he got to his feet. "Very well," he croaked, "although you must understand I would never have signed to this agreement had I known you would betray me. One million in bonds deposited in a Swiss bank under the name of Dominique Destine."

"Show me," said Demona.

Xanatos sighed with exasperation. "Very well," he said, walking to a computer console let into the wall. He called up Zurich International Trust's website and allowed her to type in the code name she had chosen. The screen filled with figures. Demona nodded curtly.

"Let us hope," she said, "that if we ever do meet again, we will be on the same side, Xanatos. For your sake."

She leapt into the air, bounded off the girder supports for the skylight, and was gone into the night. Alone, Xanatos regarded the empty skylight, musing.

Owen came in, raised an impeccable eyebrow at the blossoming bruises on his employer's throat, and said "Mrs. Xanatos wishes to see you, sir. I believe her confinement has come to an end."

With a soft swelling of the night air, Goliath came to earth, followed a moment later by Hudson. The young snow, just beginning to tint and swirl the darkness, gemmed his raven hair and deadened the sound of their footsteps on the lonely road. The silence of snow, Goliath thought absently, was similar to the silence of death; but death, as he recalled, was a great deal more comfortable. Cold did not bother the gargoyles, but even so the feeling of the little frozen motes landing hundred upon hundred on his face, his shoulders, his wings, was strange and oddly intimate. He didn't like snow. He had never liked snow.

Around the bend they saw the floodlights of the Daggett Industries complex, glowing from below them on the hill; at a nod from Goliath, they sprang once more into the air, this time flying low enough to evade the motion sensors set into the road a few yards ahead, and swirled down the air currents to land with a series of delicate crunches on the roof of the lab complex, conveniently close to a skylight. Thank the gods, thought Goliath, for skylights.

He crouched down by the frosted glass, laid his ear to it. Faintly he could hear footsteps inside; more than two humans, by the sound of it. One of the voices was very, very familiar.

...."so Stage One is complete, but unfortunately the freak and the cop survived. Can you believe my associate rescued them before they died? You just cannot get good help these days."

"Oh, I know," said another voice, a thoroughly unpleasant nasal whine. "I seem to run through associates like, ah, well, handkerchiefs. Harley's left me again."

"Through here," said a gruff third voice. Goliath knew Roland Daggett when he heard him. "Stage Two. The gas form of the vector."

"How does this work?" said Xanatos.

"Our people distribute it throughout the metro center during peak rush hours. It acts immediately as a vapor form of the activator serum, and the incubation time is about two hours. When mass infection has taken place, we introduce stage three, and then I am rich beyond my wildest dreams."

"What about me?" demanded the Joker. "I expect to receive enough to finance my happily hedonistic lifestyle for several years, Daggetty-poos. Don't disappoint me."

"You'll get your money like the rest of us," Daggett snarled. "Stage three is the antidote, publicly known as the experimental cure. You will all deny having seen this stuff ever before. It is..." he paused, thinking of an explanation...."a breakthrough that one of my younger geneticists came up with purely by accident and happens to be effective against what we will term the Armageddon Virus."

"Fair enough," said Xanatos dryly. "You'd just better hope no one starts thinking too hard about this. Especially no one with a degree in epidemiology."

"Shut up," said Daggett. "Tomorrow we roll."

"What about the Batman?" demanded Xanatos.

"He won't be a problem," said Daggett. "I had my goons beat him to a pulp, soak him in cold water and leave him out in the storm overnight. He ain't too healthy, or I miss my guess."

"Some joke on him," giggled the Joker. "Batsy never could see the humor in life. Oh well. No great loss to the world, huh?"

"Right. Tomorrow night at ten, same place. We'll get everything ready for Stage Two."

Goliath and Hudson exchanged a look. It had been Batman's serum which had saved Goliath's life, and a life-debt was not easily forgotten. Now it was doubly important that they stop Daggett and his associates.

He waited until the sound of their footsteps had completely died away before opening the skylight with a hooked claw and glancing inside. Lightly, despite his size, he dropped down into the deserted laboratory. Everywhere the blink of red lights indicated security cameras, and he knew he had less than two minutes before he was inundated with gun-toting guards, but he intended to use those two minutes to full advantage.


End file.
